I have been writing for as long as I can remember, and it becomes more and more difficult to find a purpose to write. But sometimes I think that the purpose of writing is not about finding a purpose for the writing itself, and I struggle to feel validation when I’m only writing for myself. Does anyone else feel this way? Does anyone else feel like they can try all they want to say something great, to say something important, to talk about how they really feel—but because there’s no response back, the void is just empty and black, and nothing is really happening?

So I’m asking you: please respond to this. Are you frustrated with writing in any form—creative fiction, nonfiction, narrative, self-reflection? Why does it seem like writing ends in silence even though that’s exactly where it begins? Why does it feel like the harder I try to say something significant, the more insignificant my points become?

I have been writing a lot about death and what comes after, lately. I think I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of creating a purpose within a finite space—whether that space is time itself or a specific place in which to make a change. The characters I create all struggle with these big questions. And yes, those characters are obviously reflections of me, but I also believe they’re larger reflections of everybody.

Questions about meaning. Questions about indifference. Questions about what we create—and what we don’t.

My most recent piece is about a young man facing death and writing about it. Obviously this man is me, but he’s also not me, because I can control what happens to him—almost more so than I can control myself. Or is that right? Maybe I can’t control myself. Maybe controlling myself is as hopeless as controlling that character. Or maybe, just maybe, that character has more control over me than I ever thought. Who’s to say?

That’s what I struggle with: this idea that we are isolated and self-driven. On the one hand, that can feel liberating. On the other, it can feel overwhelmingly empty. God willing, somebody would tell us to course-correct, to argue with us, to challenge us on something. Because otherwise it’s just me here, and you there.

In the story, this character writes a poem about floating on a black pond. Swans drift across it—symbols of life—but their feet touch the waters of death. I think that’s how we live most of our days. Balanced on the surface. Hovering between one thing and another. And I also think we’re never really sure whether our toes are dipped into something more meaningful—or less meaningful—than we imagine. It’s hard to tell when you’re alone in that silence.

I don’t want to vanish into quiet. I want to know if anyone else is here, feeling the same hunger for acknowledgment and the same dread of silence. Please respond. Please clap.